


The Calm and the Storm

by Alphin



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Original Work
Genre: Greek Mythology - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Pining, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, i'll add as i go - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:20:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28240794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphin/pseuds/Alphin
Summary: Deimos is the God of Terror and Dread (more specifically, the Dread and Terror felt by soldiers before a battle). He has been pining for Agathos (God of Compassion and Strength of Mind) for the past 50 years.When Deimos gets nervous, an aura of Dread/Terror radiates from him, making it nearly impossible to meet new people without something going wrong. He's content to watch his unrequited love from a distance, unwilling to risk frightening him away.His twin brother, Phobos, however, has other plans. Terrible plans.
Relationships: Deimos/Agathos
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Looking Through a Window

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little story I've had in my mind for a while now. 
> 
> Full disclosure; I'm not an expert on Greek mythology.  
> I've been writing this story for fun and didn't plan on sharing it, but I've decided... fuck it.  
> Also, Agathos is an Original Character.
> 
> I'm going to be sharing songs that I listen to while writing, or songs that remind me of the chapter, or a character  
> This chapter's song is 'Waving Through a Window' from Dear Evan Hansen

There is much that can be said about Dionysus’ parties -mostly good things overall- but for me they have always been a place of discomfort. By all accounts that shouldn’t be the case, for Dionysus is an excellent host, and his parties are legendary amongst Gods and mortals alike. The man really goes all out. Lavish decorations, such as the floral blooms that drape themselves on the walls and weep off the edges of every surface, enchanting music, and of course, food and wine galore. 

The other Gods are easily drawn into the atmosphere of it all, and I can’t fault them for it. I wish I could get lost in it as well. 

But I’m the God of Terror, and Dread - not the type of person most people are down to party with.

“Deimos!” my brother, Phobos, calls from behind me, and I turn to see him heading towards me, holding two glasses containing either wine, nectar, or quite possibly both.

He’s much like me in appearance, although that’s hardly surprising given that we’re twins. We share the same dark hair, the same well-built physique achieved by countless hours of training, spurred on by our Father, Ares, to be great warriors worthy of riding beside him in battle. And for the most part, we are. If you asked him, I’m sure father would boast about us and claim that we are everything he could have asked for as his progeny. We are the fear and terror of war. Phobos rides into battle, bringing panic and fear to the mortals he influences. And I wander through the ranks of soldiers before the battle begins, sowing terror and dread. I am the feeling soldiers face in the still moments before the battle truly starts.

And therein lies my problem with parties. Not many people want to talk to the God of Terror. 

“Here, drink.” Phobos orders as he pushes a glass into my hand. I stare into it blankly and whirl it around a little as the golden liquid shimmers with the movement. Nectar; most likely mixed with one of Dionysus’ alcoholic concoctions. 

“You know I don’t like drinking at these things.” I remind him. He rolls his eyes -a deep purple, a stark difference from my own- and takes a sip from his own glass.

“Maybe if you did you’d actually let loose for once. Live a little.”

“Or I’d make a fool of myself and never want to show my face again.” I frown and Phobos stares at me, unimpressed.

“Why do you even come to these? It's not like father makes you.” he points out, joining me to lean against the back wall -the perfect place to people-watch.

I reluctantly bring the nectar to my lips and take a slow drag, stalling, buying myself time to think of an answer when I know deep down there’s nothing I can say that wouldn’t make him pry further.

There’s movement out of the corner of my eye, and I glance towards an elegant fountain surrounded by marble statues that stand proudly as they pour everflowing jugs of water into the flowered pool. I’ve been keeping an eye on that area all evening - but not because of the scenery. There’s a small cluster of minor Gods, and one in particular catches my eye as he laughs at something someone said.

His hair is light, and his face is gentle. He’s the kind of man whose beauty can light up the room with just his mere presence. His eyes are scrunched shut with laughter, but I know that behind those lids are the most enchanting pair of ever-changing eyes. His figure is slight, delicate upon first glance, but lean with muscle underneath the blue robes he wears. 

I can’t help staring, wondering what it was that made him laugh.

“Deimos?” Phobos says, drawing my attention back to him. He’s watching me closely. Waiting.

“Pardon,” I say, “It's been a while since I’ve had quality nectar.”

It’s the first excuse that comes to mind, and I immediately regret it as Phobos’ gaze flicks over to where I was looking and turns suspicious.

“Mm. You seem rather distracted tonight.” he says, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “Surely it’s not just the nectar?”

“I’m just thinking.”

“About what?” he presses.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Is it the redhead or the pretty blond one?” he cuts right to the point, forgoing any pretense of ignorance he was trying to maintain. 

“Phobos that’s not-” I begin.

“Or is it the rugged brunette with the scars? He doesn’t seem your type but…” he trails off, grinning wickedly. He knows exactly how to push my buttons, and I hate him for it.

“Quiet!” I hiss, grabbing his shoulder to urge him to stop. “Please. Keep your voice down.” I reluctantly draw myself closer to him and whisper, “It’s the blond.”

Phobos peeks back at the little group, not even attempting to be stealthy about it while I silently fret over the idea of them noticing that they’re being watched. He says nothing for a long moment as my heart anxiously pounds in my chest, and an aura of dread begins to build up inside of me, threatening to spill over and affect those around me.

“What’s he the God of?” Phobos asks, seemingly deep in thought.

“Strength.” I answer, and then quickly add, “and compassion.”

“Strength? Really? He doesn’t look very strong.” Phobos observes.

“Not physical strength. Mental, more like? Mental fortitude.” I explain.

“Hm. Have the two of you ever spoken?”

“No,” I sigh, “I don’t even think he knows I exist.”

“Then go introduce yourself!” he urges, “You’ll never win him if you keep staring.”

“I can’t,” I say, dejectedly, “The very thought of speaking with him makes me nervous. You know I can’t control my divine influence when I’m nervous. I’d scare him and he’d never want to look at me again, let alone speak with me.”

“Oh come on, Deim. How long have you been pining for him?”

“...Fifty years, give or take.” I respond, sheepishly.

“Then fuck it! If you don’t make a move, nothing will change. You have nothing to lose by saying hello.” He tries to sound encouraging, but it does nothing to motivate me.

“It’s not the ‘hello’ I’m worried about.” I say and slouch further against the wall, “It’s what comes after. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what to do. He’d probably run off before I even got the chance.”

“Hey. Listen.” Phobos says, voice going serious as he grabs my shoulder with his free hand. “Anyone would be lucky to have you. He just needs to spend some quality time with you to realize that.”

“That’s never going to happen, but I appreciate the thought.” I sigh as I push his hand away from me. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m going home.”

Phobos looks as though he’s going to stop me, but doesn’t. 

“Fine.” he relents. “Enjoy sitting at home like a loser.”

“Thanks, I will.” I pass him my glass and make my way across the room. Unable to help myself, I spare one last glance towards the fountain and freeze. Pretty blue eyes watch me, and a shiver courses down my spine. A bolder man might have waved, or smiled, or shown some form of acknowledgement, but I am not a bold man, and so I turn my back and and leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: Monsters by Matchbook Romance

From Agathos' POV

Olympus is a big place, full of big personalities. The Gods tend to be fickle and petty, and well, generally unpleasant to be around at times. There’s a lot of infighting, and it nearly always gets out of hand.

But here, in the great halls of Dionysus’ home, it’s as if they all can put their differences aside for a few hours and enjoy the evening and the spell it seems to cast with the aid of the fine music and atmosphere. Oh, and of course the seemingly never ending supply of nectar and wine.

Suffice to say, I rather enjoy these parties. Who wouldn’t? 

I’m on my fifth glass of nectar, listening to Morpheus -my favourite asshole of a God- tell us stories of his dreamwalking. 

“-and so I turned into this goose, right? And for the rest of his dream I followed him around and got in the way of anything he tried to do. An unusual nightmare, to be sure, but those are the ones I enjoy the most.”

“He had it coming.” Caerus comments with an approving nod that sweeps his lock of red hair into his face.

Our little group seems to be in agreement, and Morpheus immediately launches into another tale, spurred on by our approval. 

His stories are wonderful, but he’s been at it for a while now and my mind is starting to wander. Being a curious man, I scan around the room, searching for anything of interest going on.

Alas, it’s mostly just people chatting, and of course, Zeus making a fool of himself as he tries to impress some nymphs. But that’s hardly a rare sight to see, and not as interesting as one might think.

My gaze wanders to the door and stops. There’s a black haired God wearing dark robes of grey. He turns around and our eyes lock. Never before have I seen a pair of eyes so shockingly pink. We hold each other's gaze in a moment that seems to stretch on forever.

He’s unfamiliar to me, but I’m sure I’ve seen him around at other parties. Always alone in some distant corner, it seems, or glued to Ares’ side.

As I stare a creeping sensation begins to crawl up my spine, and into my chest. Dread. But for what, I don’t know.

The stranger tenses up and quickly turns around, and the feeling disappears so suddenly that I wonder if I had imagined it.

\-----

Evening turns to night, and I find my way to one of the balconies for some fresh air and a much needed break from the overly social atmosphere. 

As much as I love parties, I’m still an introvert at heart, much like my father. Our home is large, but empty of most living things. Instead, it’s filled with living statues and metal contraptions that move on their own and do his bidding. It’s lonely, but comfortable. And in the end that’s everything I need, right?

Feelings of uncertainty gnaw at me, for lately I haven’t been so sure anymore. The desire to walk among mortals, just to see what it’s like, grows stronger each year like an itch I can’t quite scratch. I crave change, and I can feel the time for it is coming soon.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A rough voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I turn to see who has approached me. I’d chosen this balcony over the others because it was empty and secluded from the rest of the party. Seeing someone else here was surprising.

I recognize him immediately as the God from before. But something is different about him. His eyes, perhaps? I could have sworn they were a vivid shade of pink before, but perhaps that was a trick of the light. Right now they’re a dark purple, and they bore into me as he steps closer. Instinctively, I take a step back and feel the cool press of stone against my back.

Something isn’t right. My mind is shooting off all sorts of warning signals, but I do my best to hold my composure. 

“Yes… gorgeous.” I respond, levelling a wary gaze at him. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met before.” He says.

“No. No we have not.” I confirm.

“I’m Phobos, son of Ares, God of Fear and Panic.” He does a little bow as he says it, over exaggerated and clearly done in jest.

“Agathos. Son of Hephaestus, God of Strength and Compassion.” I politely reply. He seems pleased at that.

“Compassion?” He asks, “I know we’ve just met, but could I ask a favour of you?”

“I’m listening,” I say.

“Lately my brother has been weak willed and unmotivated. I fear it’s affecting his work. He could use someone like you. To boost his spirits, that is.” He takes a small step closer. Cautious. Why is he being cautious? 

“That’s a shame.” I reply, “is he here tonight?”

“No, he left a while ago.” Another step. My apprehension grows as he gets uncomfortably close, and blooms into all out panic as he rests his hand on the balcony right beside me, crowding me further against the stone.

The urge to run is strong, but he says he is the God of panic. For all I know this could just be his divine influence getting to me; some Gods have difficulties keeping it in check. It’s a strong possibility, and if it truly is the case, fleeing would only serve to upset him. 

I acknowledge my emotions, and take a breath to steel myself. I will not run. The powers of panic must make it difficult to socialize, and likely sow distrust in whoever he speaks with. I will not give into its effects. 

“You seem scared,” he says, noticing my unease. Guilt plucks at me for being so easy to read. “I promise, I won’t bite.” he assures me.

I begin to calm down a little at his words, until he flashes me a ghastly smirk and adds, “Unless you want me to?” 

I stare at him for a moment and it dawns on me that he seems to be enjoying my fear, feeding off it, even. My panic must be genuine, not the cause of his influence.

“I’m sorry, I need to go-“ I try to push past him, but he grabs my wrist in a tight, almost painful grip.

“Yes, we should go.” He says as I struggle to free myself from his hold. I may be strong, but the Son of War is stronger. My attempts only make things worse as he manages to grab my other wrist and lock it in alongside my other one, giving himself a free hand to pull out a necklace with an azure pendant dangling from its chain. I recognize it immediately, for it was my father who crafted it for Hypos - the God of sleep. 

“We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.” he threatens.

I respond by slamming my head into his jaw. As he grunts in pain, his grip on my wrists loosen just enough for me to wrench them free. But no sooner do I push past him to run, his arm violently snakes around my waist and yanks me flush against his chest. 

“Hard way it is,” he mutters, looping the trinket over my head before I have a chance to react. I open to mouth to shout, but words fail me as the world fades to black as soon as the pendant settles on my chest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: Masterpiece Theatre I & II by Mariana's Trench

Deimos' POV

The glow of candles illuminate my chambers as I look over bits of parchment that father had given me. It’s all boring, really. Accounts of how different territories are getting along, and how likely they are to go to war. 

Starting a war is more my father’s job, but lately he’s been saying that I need to show a little more interest in the ‘family business’. He’s probably not wrong. In our last battle I had no idea what either side was fighting for. It doesn’t change what my abilities do, but it annoyed him nonetheless.

There’s a knock at my chambers. A welcome distraction.

“Enter.” I say, gathering up my parchment to neatly put away for later.

The door creaks open and Phobos lets himself in.

“Enjoying your night alone?” He asks, coming over to stand by me. He raises a brow at all the parchment but doesn’t comment on it, thankfully. 

“Mhmm.” Is all the response I give as I keep my eyes focused on the task at hand, and fervently hope that he’s not here to continue our conversation from earlier.

“Well I’ve got a surprise for you that’ll make it even better.”

That catches my interest. 

“A surprise?” I ask, finally looking up at him, “What is it?” 

“If I told you it wouldn’t be a surprise. Come. Follow me.” He says it like a command, but I follow him anyway, like I always do.

He leads me down into the depths of our home, past our weaponry, past any room that sees frequent use, until we end up at a door I know to be our parlour - meant to entertain guests we rarely ever have over. I give Phobos a confused look. 

“Well. Go on.” He urges. 

Curious and wary, I open the door and pray this isn’t another one of his cruel jokes. 

But oh, it’s so much worse.

Agathos, the man I’ve held hidden affection for all these years is sitting on a chaise lounge that once belonged to our mother. His eyes burn a pinkish red, much darker than my own and so, so different from the hues of blue and orange I’d seen him with before. He glares at me with what I can only assume is hatred, and struggles aggressively against the bonds that hold his arms behind him.

“No… no, no, no. Phobos, what have you done?!” I demand, turning on my brother. Over the centuries he’s done many horrible things -cruel pranks on mortals for the most part, but sometimes I would find myself victim to them as well- but this? This is beyond too far. 

“Thank me later.” He says with a wink. 

“I’m going to kill you later.” I threaten. The bastard laughs.

“Sure, sure.” he says, clearly not taking me seriously at all. He should. Gods have fought over much smaller issues, and I’m ready to tear his head off for this. Frustratingly, my anger only seems to entertain him. He gestures towards Agathos and says, “I wouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you. Have fun.”

And with a flick of his wrist, he vanishes and leaves nothing in his wake but a thick cloud of sangria tinted smoke that dissipates within seconds. 

I slowly turn to face Agathos, my body heavy with dread, the emotion I embody and a feeling I am all too familiar with. Never in my immortal life has it been this strong. It tears at me as my mind jumps to all the horrible ways this will end. 

Over the years I have imagined countless scenarios in which I would introduce myself to Agathos. I’ve dreamed of what I would say, what he might say, and of little ways I could possibly make him laugh so I could see that beautiful smile of his.

Nothing could have prepared me for this.

His scarlet glare bores into me and I know he must hate me. For good reason, but none of my own doing.

We silently stare at each other as my anxiety spikes beyond its threshold. I know I should go untie the bonds that hold him, but, if I get any closer he’ll be engulfed in my aura. 

I can’t stall forever, though.

“I… I’m sorry. For all of this.” I say, fidgeting by the door, reluctant to come any closer.

“I don’t need an apology,” he snaps in response, “I need you to cut the ropes and let me go.”

“Right. I… need a moment.” I try to desperately calm myself, but to no avail. How does one keep calm in this situation?

“Not in a moment. Now.” He demands. He’s angry, but I can hear the edges of fear in his voice. 

Oh Phobos, what have you done?

“I can’t,” I say, almost too quietly to be heard, “if I get any closer I’ll scare you.”

“I think we’re well past that point.”

“No, you don’t understand. When I’m like this I can’t control my divine influence. It’s pure terror. It can drive mortals mad.” I try to explain. He’s not having any of it.

“I’m not a mortal. I can take it.” He insists. I want to protest, to ask for a few moments to try and bring myself under control, but I don’t have the heart to. He looks so small sitting there, angry and helpless, and more than likely confused as to how he ended up in this situation at all. To make him wait for freedom and answers any longer would be cruel. 

“Okay. Okay I’ll come free you.” I relent and slowly inch forwards, “I’m so sorry. My brother, he-“

“Your brother…” he says, thoughtfully. “I remember seeing you at the party. I thought he was you at first.”

Now that I’ve agreed to help him, he seems to be calming down somewhat. It’s not much, but it’s something.

“It happens a lot.” I respond. 

Just as I predicted, he tenses up as I draw near and my aura’s affect begins to take place. 

“Are you alright? If it’s too much I can go and-“

“Don’t.” He says, “Don’t go. Don’t leave me here like this. I can handle a little terror.” He assures me, “this is nothing.”

His voice is firm, but almost pleading. I nod and slowly make my way over to him. With each step I take, his eyes grow lighter and lighter, and by the time I’m standing in front of him they’re an iridescent white. I don’t know what it means, but I assume it can’t be good.

“I’m going to get you out now, ok?” I assure him and go around the chaise to examine the knots. Phobos went overboard with them. They’re tight and I can see them biting painfully into his thin wrists. 

“Why am I here?” He asks after a moment of silence. He’s doing surprisingly well, all things considered. There’s a slight shake in his voice, but as far as I can tell from behind him, he doesn’t seem to be crying. 

I suppose I knew I’d have to answer that question sooner or later. After all this, he at least deserves to know why he’s ended up here. I can’t deny him that. 

I begin working at the knots as I take a moment to gather my thoughts. 

“It’s my fault.” I start, guilt pricking at me as I feel his tense up again, “I didn’t mean for this to happen, though. I didn’t think he’d do something like this. Phobos can be unpredictable, but even this is a bit much for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” I repeat, unsure what exactly the question was directed at.

“You say this is your fault. How?”

I tug at the ropes, trying to be as gentle as I can, though with little success. He waits patiently for me to answer, and I find myself impressed with the level of control he’s showing while being in direct contact with my aura. Phobos is the only person I’ve met who can stand to be this close to me when I’m like this. I think it’s because we’re so similar in what we do, personally, but Phobos insists it’s because he’s secretly the God of bravery, too. 

“Earlier at the party… he caught me staring at you.” I say, slowly, “he urged me to introduce myself, but I refused and left. I never thought he’d do something like this. I’m sure he thinks he’s doing me a favour or something. He doesn’t always understand how his actions affect others. Or… maybe he does and just doesn’t care. I don’t really know which it is.”

There’s a long moment of silence, the only sounds are coming from the ropes as I slowly work my way through them, and from Agathos - who’s breathing deeply, fighting against my influence.

“I see.” He says, finally, in a tone that’s hard to decipher. 

I don’t know how I expected him to react. Maybe a few insults, a threat or two to never come near him again. But I have no idea what he’s thinking. What I do know is that this will likely be our first and final meeting. 

I pull at one of the ropes and they fall loose to the ground. Agathos pulls his arms in front of him and rubs at the sore markings the rope has left.

“You’re free to go.” I say, despondently. 

“Thanks.” He replies, but makes no move to leave or get up.

“I can show you out, if you’d like.” I offer, coming around to the front of the chaise. His eyes are no longer purely white. There’s the faintest hint of amber in them. That’s a good sign, at least. I hope.

He looks directly at me, as though mulling something over in his mind. And then he does something that catches me off guard - he pats the empty spot beside him.

I furrow my brows in confusion, and for just a moment the tiniest hint of a smile graces his features. It’s gone as suddenly as it came.

“Well?” He prompts after a few moments of me standing there, confused out of my wits.

“I don’t understand-“

“You don’t have to.” He says, simply. 

“You don’t need to stay. You don’t owe me your time.” 

“I know.”

And he says no more. Just waits patiently and watches me. With great hesitation, I sit beside him, giving him as much space as I possibly can.

“So are you going to introduce yourself?” He asks, so casually it astounds me. 

“You can’t be serious.” I respond without thought.

“I want you to introduce yourself. I take it you know who I am, but I don’t even know your name.”

“Aren’t you scared…?” I ask, beyond confused. There are so many reasons this conversation shouldn’t be happening right now. It has to be a trick of some sort.

“Oh, I’m terrified,” he says, though there’s humour in his voice, “Everything that’s happened, and your influence… I don’t think there’s any other way to feel at the moment.”

“I’m sorry.” I apologize again.

“Stop telling me you’re sorry. Tell me your name.” He says, gently. His eyes have turned a lovely shade of pale amber. A warm colour.

It makes me realize that I’m starting to feel warm, in the soothing sense. A feeling of comfort creeps around me, as if trying to find a way to snake through the dread and terror that radiates from me. 

I meet his gaze, both in awe and disbelief. This must be his divine influence - to soothe and comfort. 

“Deimos.” I tell him.

“Deimos.” He repeats. “Well, Deimos. What did you want to talk about?”

“I… don’t know.” I admit, still incredulous over this entire situation. “I just don’t know.”

“Then I’ll start.” He says without hesitation, once again surprising me. “What do you do? You mentioned you’re the God of Terror, but that has me wondering what kind of duties someone like you has.”

Oh boy. That question sparks wave after wave of dread to roll off me, but he doesn’t flinch away. His eyes, now a rich amber, are filled with a stubborn determination I hadn’t expected. He’s fighting against my aura, and little by little, I realize, he’s winning. 

“Well,” I say, uneasily, “I am the Terror and Dread soldiers feel before battle. Mortals make offerings and pray to me to scare their enemies into surrendering or fleeing. My father says it can really help set the mood of the battle.”

“Your father being Ares, yes?”

“Yes.”

He thinks for a moment, then asks, “So what do you do during the battle, then?”

“Nothing special, really. That’s where my brother comes in - puts the fear and panic into them. We both ride alongside our father, and I support him however I can.”

“Interesting.” He says, with no hint of sarcasm or jest.

“What about you?” I ask, mildly emboldened as my nerves slowly ease up, something I didn’t think would be possible at a time like this. 

“Me? Well,” he begins, “I try to comfort those who need comforting, and give them the strength to push through whatever challenges they’re facing. But more than that, I try to guide the mortals and encourage them to care for one another. To see someone in need and offer their comfort and aid. That is my greatest influence.”

“I wish I had a gift like yours.” I muse.

“I don’t blame you.” He says, sympathetically, “Your own gift seems to make life more difficult for you, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. I suppose.” I sigh, “it certainly makes it hard to approach others.”

“I can tell.” He says, and I feel myself flush a little from embarrassment.

Silence falls between us, but there’s no awkwardness to it. Talking to him and feeling his influence has done a surprisingly good job of easing up my tension, and by extension, my aura.

I can’t help looking at him. The way he sits with his legs neatly folded beneath him, his shoulder length hair that’s come loose from its tie at some point during all of this - everything about him seems so delicate. I’ve never seen him this up close before. His features are so soft, despite having looked like he was going to rip my throat out when I first entered the room. 

He notices my staring and I look away, ashamed. 

“I have to go.” He says, and my heart sinks. 

“Yes. Of course.” I reluctantly agree. 

“But… if it’s alright with you, I think I’d like to do this again,” he says, and then adds, “Minus the kidnapping, of course.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded and speechless.

“You… can’t be serious.” I say.

“I’m serious.” He confirms, “What your brother did is unacceptable. But you’re not your brother. And I’d like to try talking more under different circumstances. Better ones. If that’s alright with you?”

“You’re insane.” I say without thinking.

“Is that a bad thing?” He says, almost teasingly.

“I don’t know.” I respond, “I don’t think so.”

“Good. Me neither.” He says, “but let me make something clear… If you do anything that puts me to harm, you’ll never hear from me again. I’m the God of Compassion, not the God of putting up with bullshit. Understand? I’m giving you one chance, and one chance only.”

“That’s more than generous.” I say, “I won’t disappoint you. You have my word.” I promise, pushing away the voice in my head trying to tell me I’ve already disappointed him.

“Good.”

—-

I show him out and head back to my chambers, a conflicted mess of emotions.

Agathos is allowing me a chance at friendship. I dare hope for anything more at this point, and after what he’s been through because of me I doubt there will ever be something more. But this is… much better than I expected it to play out.

“How’d it go?” Phobos appears beside me and I immediately pick up my pace. 

“You’re dead to me.” I mutter darkly, ignoring his question.

“Oh come on, don’t be so dramatic.” He walks faster to try and keep pace with me. “I was only looking out for you. It’s what brothers are for.”

“You call that looking out for me?” I scoff, “you created a nightmare scenario I could have never come up with myself. Congratulations.”

“Okay but seriously, how did it go? I’m dying to know.”

“You’ll be dying alright.”

“Deim, c’mon.” He pleads.

I sigh and stop walking to face him. “We have plans to meet in two days' time. Out in daylight, since he can’t trust being alone with me after that stunt you pulled.”

Phobos grins. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m not thanking you.” 

“You will, someday.” He smirks, and then says in a much lighter tone, “You know, he was a lot more difficult than I thought he’d be - the little bastard tried to bite me when I went to wake him up. Very feisty.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” I scowl, “If you have half a brain you’ll stay away from me from now on. Goodnight, Phobos.”

And I disappear, leaving him alone in the hallway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I normally write in 3rd person/past tense without any POV switching.   
> What I'm doing rn is my lazy writing. And I kind of want to make a separate version how I'd normally do it.  
> Idk If I'm for sure gonna do that just yet. For now I'm thinking I'll update lazily like I've been doing and then when I have time I can more thoroughly go through it and make something different? It'd be a separate fic.   
> Good idea? Dumb idea? Thoughts?
> 
> Chapter Song: Overwhelmed by Royal & The Serpents

Steam whistles as the bellows of my father’s forge pump air into the flames. They flare up as his machines hammer away at hot iron, shaping it into something more, something greater than it was before. The Automatas of Hephaestus are dutiful in their work, never pausing, never speaking. The only sound they make is the clang of their hammers, and the whir of whatever it is that keeps them going.

It’s loud, but there’s a rhythm to it. 

It’s hot, but I don’t mind the sweltering heat.

I’ve never possessed the same talent for crafting that my father has, but even so, I like it here and often come to sit by the anvils and think. 

And so I find myself sitting on the sooted floor, staring into the eternal flame of father’s great forge as I consider the previous night and all that transpired.

The whole ordeal should unsettle me, and it does, in a way. Being kidnapped is not something I’ll soon forget.

But I can’t stop thinking about Deimos. Something about the shy God draws my thoughts to him, ever curious to know more of who he is.

I know it was stupid of me to suggest seeing each other again. For all I know it was all planned from the very beginning- Phobos kidnapping me could have just been so that Deimos could swoop in as my saviour. 

But...

I remember the terror I felt as he approached me. It seemed to wrap itself around my very being, and yet it wasn’t my own terror I was feeling - it was his, and it was genuine.

How could I not feel compelled to stay with him? To see him again? He’s scared and awkward, and he needs a friend. It’s not my job to be that person, but I want to.

Perhaps it’s my instincts as the God of Compassion pulling me to him, or perhaps there’s something in him I want to explore more. I’m not sure which it is, but either way I find myself thinking that the day of our next meeting couldn’t come fast enough.

\---

The days pass with a painful slowness that grates at my patience. Most of my time is spent spying on mortals going about their daily lives, and the rest is spent weaving. I may not know how to properly hammer out a sword, but weaving? I can do weaving. 

I end up arriving early- which isn’t such a bad thing. The garden we’ve agreed to meet in is beautiful, just as all the gardens of Olympus are, full of intricate fountains and colourful flowers. I choose a marbled bench to wait on beside a lattice of blue flowers that droop prettily within the folds of their leaves.

I thought I’d be waiting a while, but Deimos arrives not too long after. He freezes when he sees me, and I offer him a small smile, hoping to allay some of his anxieties. It seems to have the opposite effect, because his face goes red and I begin to feel his aura creeping up on me. It gives me chills all the way down my spine, but knowing what it is and how it’s linked to his emotions makes it much easier to push away.

He takes a step forward, then hesitates, looking unsure at the bench and the space beside me.

“Deimos?” I say, drawing his attention back to me. It doesn’t seem to help, but eventually he works up the nerve to join me. I brace myself for his divine influence as he gets closer, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it was the other day. It still makes me tense up, and makes me have the vague sense that something horrible is about to happen, but I know it’s fine. It’s just his aura. It’ll be ok.

He sits as far away from me as the bench will allow, something I’m grateful for as I adjust to his presence and the emotional turmoil that comes with it. We sit like that for a while, neither of us speaking or looking at the other. It would be too much, I think, and no sooner do I think it I’m overcome with the stubborn urge to test myself against it. I turn to face him.

He’s staring at the ground in front of us, jaw clenched tight. I clear my throat and he turns to me, our eyes meeting. A rock drops in my stomach, and tears prick behind my eyes, threatening to spill, but I push away the feeling the best I can. 

It’s just his aura, I remind myself. 

The silence is awkward, but I feel at a loss for words. Surprisingly, it’s him that speaks up first.

“Your eyes,” he says, slowly, “They’re turning white again.”

Shoot.

“What does it mean?” he asks, a look of concern spreading over his handsome face.

“It’s nothing.” I lie. I’m a terrible liar. Being too easy to read has been the bane of my existence for as long as I can remember, and my eyes only make it worse.

“They were white the other day, too.” he points out, looking at me with worry.

“It happens.” I say defensively, trying to fight the feelings of dread that are overwhelming me. 

“I’m sorry.” he says, moving to get up, “This was a bad idea.”

“No!” I say quickly, leaning over to touch his arm and guide him back down to sit. I flinch initially at the contact, but I take a deep breath, and release it slowly. And again, and again, until I’m starting to feel more in control. “It’s fine.” I assure him. And it is fine. I will make it so.

“If you’re certain.” he says, not sounding so certain himself.

“I am. I’m the one that asked to meet.” I say. “I want to be here.”

He relaxes a little and sits back down, but the worry is still there. Again, I breathe deeply and close my eyes, searching inside myself for the warmth of my own divine influence, pulling at it, nurturing it, until it grows and spreads out from me as I exhale. 

“See?” I say, feeling more confident as the warmth wraps around us and tries to nudge it’s way past his barriers. It takes a moment. I can see it in his eyes, the way they widen slightly before the tension begins to leave his body. Slowly, his own aura starts to dissipate.

“Wow.” He breathes. “I still can’t believe you can just… do that.”

“We each have our own gifts.”

“That is true. But yours are… good. I’m a war God. My gifts aren’t meant to be good.”

“I disagree.” I say, frowning. “The other day you told me you are the dread and terror a soldier feels before a battle.”

“Yes? And?”

“Do you not see the good in that?”

“Not really, no.”

“Without you, the mortals would be quicker to go to war. And when they do you can sway them to surrender or flee instead of throwing away their lives.” I point out.

He stares at me, dumbfounded.

“I’ve never looked at it that way before.” He says, “my father and brother… they’ve always made it seem like my job is to hype up the battle. Stir their emotions so they fight harder to survive.” He looks forlorn. “I feel like an opening act.”

I reach over across the distance between us and lean closer as I rest my hand on his.

“Opening act or not, what you do is important. You prevent bloodshed. And that in itself is good.”

He startles at the sudden contact, and looks from my hand to my eyes. I wish I could see what colour they are, because right now I’m not even sure how I feel. What a curse it is, not being able to read oneself while the world around you gets such an obvious giveaway.

I stare at him, beseechingly, hoping to make him see what I see. I can see him processing it, taking it in, and slowly, accepting it. For the first time since we’ve met, his eyes light up with a spark of… joy? I’m not entirely sure.

“You really think so?” He asks, voice filled with an excitement I hadn’t heard before.

“Truly.”

“Thank you. I- You…. I don’t even know what to say.” He looks away shyly, and I can’t help but stare. Neither of us have moved our hands and I take a moment to admire the stark contrast of them; mine, slender and pale, and his, dark and calloused.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, what do your eyes mean?” His question snaps me back to our conversation.

“Pardon?”

“The way they change colour.” He says. “It’s linked with your emotions, is it not? I’m trying to decipher them”

“Please don’t.” I say. “I didn’t choose to have a mood indicator built into my face. Just don’t concern yourself with it.

“May I ask about just one? You don’t need to answer. I’ve just been wondering for some time.”

“Hm? Ask away.” I say after some deliberation. He seems pleased by my response, and although I’m hesitant when it comes to sharing these details, I find myself glad for it. Up until now I’d only seen him when he’s an anxious mess. I want to see more of this side of him. 

“When I’ve seen you at parties, your eyes are usually blue or some shade of orange. And now they’ve turned blue again. What does it mean?”

I take a moment to really consider if I want to answer him.

“They turn blue when I’m happy.” I eventually say.

He seems to perk up at that. “Really? Being here with me, talking, is making you happy?”

“Yes.” I say, turning to look at a fountain as a means to avoid his gaze. “You’re good company.”

“Me? Good company?”

“That’s what I said, yes. I have quite a few friends here on Olympus. I’m especially close with Morpheus, but he goes from zero to one hundred so quickly. I always have to keep up this social energy I just don’t have. But you’re… relaxing.”

“Me? Relaxing?”

I playfully shove him. “You need to stop questioning what I say.”

“I can’t help it. You keep saying things I’ve never been told before. I mean...Relaxing? Are you sure you’re not just saying that to cheer me up?”

I look at him seriously. “I don’t like using falsehoods to make people feel better. There are some situations where it’s necessary, but I believe that I’ll do a better job of it if people know I’m honest.” I say. “People always assume I’m some soft, delicate thing that just flutters around making people feel better. They don’t understand that sometimes a harsh truth is the most compassionate thing to say. Sometimes people need that, you know?”

“You really think so?”

“I know so.” I say, smirking slightly, “I’m an expert, after all.”

“Well then I’ll have to take your word for it”

We talk comfortably for hours and hours, until we eventually have to say our goodbyes. This time it’s Deimos that asks to see me again. I agree of course, with no time or place in mind, and the two of us go our separate ways.


End file.
